


Cold War

by Lightspeed



Series: Monstrous Intent [37]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Angst, Awkwardness, Cold Weather, Dullahan!Soldier, Dullahans, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Relationship(s), Saturday Morning Cartoons, Snow and Ice, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 19:07:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4846910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coldfront is a base that takes some getting used to.  Soldier decides to take a constitutional around the base to get a feel for its surroundings, and its ins and outs.  Along the way he encounters a specter from his past, a face he'd not seen without trying to shoot it off in over a year, and feelings rush forward, stifled by company security.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold War

The land around Coldfront was rocky and cold. The soil was hard; what wasn't stone was permafrost, the mountain chill flash-freezing moisture anywhere it could be found. The snow was at least ankle-deep on most surfaces, only the metal control point at the center of the battlefield and a few stray ventilation ducts spared the chilly coating. The wind whipped across the snow, blowing up powder from its surface, too frozen to stick to itself. Soldier winced at the sudden stinging and ducked back into the line of trees.

The copious conifers studded the mountain, growing on any space available with enough soil. No rocky outcropping was safe, so long as there was enough dirt beneath the ever-present snow, and it led Soldier to wonder if this place ever thawed during summers, allowing baby seeds to get the light they needed. Or whether they just sprung fully formed from the ground like some kind of unhealthy growth from the mountainside, leeching away at the stone and eroding it hatefully while climbing toward the sky.

Soldier trudged through the snow, kicking up a trail behind his boots as he wandered the rises and cliffs around the battlefield. He'd made it a habit, ever since he'd first started working for BLU, to stalk the area surrounding where they were stationed and get a feel for the terrain. Learning the battlefield itself was important, particularly to know where the best rocket jumping spots were, and learning the area outside the bounds of sanctioned fighting was equally important, particularly to know where the best spots to hide from Spy after pulling pranks were. He made a habit of sharing the locations of those spots with Demoman and Scout. He knew they'd also need to know.

The woodlands were dense, making it easy to get lost amongst green needles glistening with snowflakes, and the mercenary had long since lost track of how long he'd been wandering the area. The cold wasn't so much of a bother for him, however, and he was more than glad for the benefits that came with undeath. Continuing to exist was a big one, too. That was a pretty great deal, all told.

Idly, the dullahan wondered how long his heads would last out here. It had been a long time since he'd had to worry about head replacements in wintry conditions, and now that he had a feel for desert rot times, it left him wondering if his typical measures would leave him overprepared. It wouldn't stop him from doing it. He liked taking and collecting heads. Yelling at them was fun, and helped him calm down a little after a bad round at work. Plus, the look of terror on a RED's face when he scooped up a fallen friend's head as a morbid trophy was worth it alone. The time he'd bludgeoned the RED Engineer to death with his own team's Sniper's noggin was the height of comedy. Soldier chuckled a bit at the memory of the abject horror on that RED Texan's face just before his Australian teammate's skull crashed into it. It had taken a while to break bone with bone, but a few well-laid shots of the severed head's forehead, with its thicker bone density, to the comparatively weak back of the engineer's skull eventually managed to cave it in with a sickening sound that had made the RED Scout vomit at the sight.

They had definitely won the psychological war that day. The REDs were too scared to enter the BLU base to scour it for intelligence for the rest of the round. That engineer still gave Soldier cagey looks when he caught sight of him on the field.

Piercing the tree line to peek through, Soldier found himself back at the boundaries of the battlefield. It was relatively standard. One high vantage point, a few side routes, a few choke points, and an open field at the center where the most unadulterated carnage could take place. What caught him as strange, however, was the half-destroyed cabin that stood at its centre, trying and failing to shield the control point set into its floor from the elements. Was the control point originally entirely indoors, leaving teams past to fight over the building itself? Did his predecessors dive through windows and slam doors on their enemies? It seemed a strangely mundane yet altogether entertaining sort of battle. Like one of those martial arts movies with guys flipping around ladders and chairs and other gimmicky weapons.

Soldier loved those movies, though he wished the sound guys were better at their jobs. Nobody's mouths matched up to what they were saying, so it looked like they weren't even speaking English!

But that was just silly.

He wondered if the building had fallen apart due to the destruction of combat or if it had just collapsed under the weight of snow and time. Either seemed like a likely culprit, and with half of the debris missing, he might never know.

Movement inside of the structure made Soldier freeze in place, eyes wide, following the flash of red he'd seen. He waited, and again, a scrap of red could be seen through a hole in the wooden wall of the house. Someone was on the field. HIS field!

He didn't have his rocket launcher. In fact, he didn't have any weapons, anticipating nothing more fearsome than the occasional wandering bear poking through the trees, but even they, at this height and time of year, were unlikely to rear their furry heads. The closest he would find is Heavy yelling at him to come have dinner.

It was best he was unarmed, anyway. The work day was over. Respawn had picked up all of the gibs and blood, in its final sweep after the bell, and both teams had returned to their bases to punch out and go about their liberty.

All, it seemed, except for Soldier and this mystery mercenary rooting around inside the ruined building. What in the hell could they be doing in—

A loud _thok_ of a blade meeting wood rapped out across the field. Followed by another. And another. It was chopping, and suddenly Soldier thought maybe the house was in shambles because the REDs, in their drafty wooden base, had been harvesting it for firewood. It didn't make sense, considering the surplus of trees all around them compared to the thick planks that made up the house's dilapidated walls and supports. Hell, the chunks of fence that dotted the field were better firewood than that!

Gathering himself up, Soldier trotted closer. He stayed out of sight, trying to keep a reasonable enough distance. After all, this RED had an axe. Who knew if he had a gun as well? Better to find out what sort of wounds Medic was going to have to dress after the scuffle before he ran in to start snapping necks. The doctor had been very insistent about him trying to do better about that.

A loud, decisive chop ended the hail of noise, a long silence stretching out behind it, punctuated with a long, exhausted sigh. Soldier peeked around the corner of the building and scanned its snow-strewn interior.

The control point at the center of the floor was inactive, its light dark, no hologram floating above it. Sitting atop the metal disk was a wide tree stump, a pile of split logs sitting next to it, and a larger uncut pile on the other side. Wedged into the stump was what looked like a pyro's fire axe, and standing beside it, catching his breath and shivering, was the RED team's demoman.

He looked miserable, bundled up tight with his face barely visible underneath layers of scarf and his head and shoulders shrouded by a heavy woolen cloak in his typical red tartan. His thick boots were crusted with ice and frozen snow, the fur rimming the top practically sticking together with any available moisture. Even so, he still looked woefully underdressed, his fur-lined flak jacket and long sleeves barely enough protection for a living human in that cold. Soldier wondered if he had just grossly underestimated the temperatures, or whether he hadn't been issued proper winter gear. Knowing the sort of fly-by-night operation RED ran, he figured it was the latter. BLU always made sure to outfit its men, even the ones who aren't alive, with proper uniforms.

Demoman was clapping his gloved hands against his arms, trying to force feeling back into them even as his fingers stung and burned. He half-curled in on himself as he stood, taking advantage of the house blocking the wind. With a resigned sigh, the bomber tugged his gloves free of his freezing fingers, redness creeping into his fingertips with a painful throb. He looked around almost as a courtesy, not actually bothering to see if anyone was looking, and jammed his hands into his pants, letting his fingertips find the crux of thigh and hip where heat collected, and wedging them in there. He couldn't be sure if the sudden surge of warmth from his own body helped the pain or made it hurt more, waking up his screaming nerves. Either way, is crotch was cold now.

Soldier licked his lips, trying to figure out what to do. Demoman could kill him without a thought, but he knew the Scot would have plenty of thoughts about doing so. Probably thoughts about betrayal, hurt, and vengeance. But what if they were regret? Thoughts of missing him and what they had? Maybe reconciliation?

It was a stupid thought. But Soldier was full of stupid thoughts. This was a chance to meet out in the open, to start something.

There were eyes everywhere. They were on the field. On company property. There was no way Miss Pauling wasn't back at HQ taking notes as The Administrator watched on those big screens of hers.

So maybe he wouldn't lead with a hug and a kiss.

"Need a hand?" Soldier asked, stepping slowly around the wall of the building.

Demoman yelped and yanked his hands from his trousers, gloves falling from the crook of his elbow to the snowy ground in his shock. He cursed and scooped them up, shaking the snow from them. "Nae from the likes o' ye, BLU," he groused, eye narrow.

Soldier didn't hold up his hands, didn't show surrender, or defeat. Simply, he stood there, firm, casual, and sized the RED up. "Your base in that bad of condition that they have to send you out for this much firewood?" He looked to the unsplit pile to punctuate his question.

"We dinnae make our bases o' concrete. Wood's nae airtight, but we manage. A fine roarin' fire's nice in weather like this. I assume ye just warm yer hands over the heatin' vents. That's a fine wintry image if yer a soulless robot," the Scot replied, trying to avoid casting his eye to the axe. What in the hell was Jane doing here? And why hadn't either of them launched at the other in a blood rage yet? Certainly the exertion would warm him up a bit. "What're ye doin' out here, creepin' up on me? Yer boss hire ye tae kill me some more?"

Soldier's hackles raised at that, "I don't know. Did you get the same offer from yours and betray me without batting your one eye and forcing my hand?"

It was a stupid argument, and a nonsense insult. Soldier knew better. He knew he'd been played by his employers for breaking the his contract. He should have lost his job, or worse, but instead, he'd just been coerced into warring with this beautiful man. The Administrator and her TV-chested lackey had rubbed his nose in it like a dog that had pissed on the rug. It was a reasonable assumption that Tavish's boss was just as ruthless.

After all, if they weren't, they wouldn't put up such a good fight against BLU.

"How dare ye," Demoman snarled. "A traitor? Me? Me supervisor said ye were the sorry sod what took a deal from his boss for a wee pair o' booties!"

"I'm no Quisling, you English skirt-twirler," Soldier snarled. It was stupid, but it was happening anyway. And even if he wanted to defuse things, what could he do with cameras and, according to Medic, magic all around them? He couldn't explain the truth as he knew it. He couldn't say he was sorry, and take Tavish into his arms and kiss those warm, soft lips he missed so much that it _hurt_.

Demoman looked the BLU over. His jaw was set, but his eyes were a different story. His helmet was tipped just far up enough that the Scot could look him in the eye, and there he saw nothing but terror and sadness. It suddenly occurred to him how much _older_ Solider looked. His eyes seemed dull, with less shine in them. His skin seemed looser, and the laugh lines the man wore seemed deeper. It wasn't a strong change, but this close, he could see the subtle difference, and it hit him like a punch to the heart.

He swallowed. Demoman very much wanted to nuzzle those creases at the corners of his eyes.

"I recall ye twirlin' a few wee skirts o' yer own, lad," came the bomber's low reply, his eye flicking southward before rising to meet Soldier's glare once again. A slight smirk twitched up the corner of his mouth.

"It is a kilt. You should know that," the American affirmed, a bit of humour rising into his tone. He tried to tamp down thoughts of the blue plaid garment he kept carefully hidden in his apartment back in New Mexico, and the warm autumn day the bomber had given it to him.

"What about those wee frilly ones?" the RED grinned. "With the lace."

Soldier cleared his throat and cast a look to a nearby very obvious camera that was trained on them. "I invoke my twenty-first amendment rights."

"The right for states tae determine their own liquor laws?"

The American stared straight head, stone-faced. "...yes."

Demoman bit back a smile. "So ye didnae answer me question. Why're ye out here?"

"Inspecting the grounds and learning the field. The opportunities for rocket jumping here are... different than 2fort," the American replied stiffly. "A lot of trees."  
That made the bomber smirk. "Aye, sticky jumping's been a proper pain in the arse here. Nae a good battle plan tae go all George o' the Jungle fresh out o' respawn."

"I was always more of a Tom Slick guy, anyway," Soldier replied with a broad grin.

"Still callin' yer launcher the Thunderbolt Greaseslapper?"

"Only Scout got the joke so it got old quick," the BLU lamented with a shrug, his smile softening, growing sadder. He recalled watching cartoons together on their days off. Saturday mornings destroying a box of cereal between the two of them as they laughed and chattered along with The Banana Splits and took bets on who would win the Wacky Races that week.

"Ah, that's nae fun. The rest o' em dinnae know fun if it bit them in the arse," Demoman shrugged.

A silence fell between them. It was thick, cloying, and heavy. It felt natural to talk like they always had, and that was probably what made it hurt worse. With the subject falling away, the reality of their situation came rushing back. They were supposed to hate each other. They were supposed to be mortal enemies. They had betrayed one another for hats and guns.

"How's, uh, how's that sword treatin' you?" Soldier asked, scratching at the back of his head.

Demoman nearly winced at that. The Eyelander was his prize, but the cost it had come at...

"He's—he's good. Takes heads nice. Ye'd like him." He swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the fact that he'd essentially chosen the blade over the man in front of him.

"We have a lot in common." The BLU's voice fell to a hush, and it sounded surreal leaving the brash American's lips. "Do you know how long it's been since we saw each other off the field?"

"We're on the field right now, lad."

"You know what I mean."

Demoman looked down. He did. "What ye did tae me—"

"You mean what you did to me?" Soldier countered.

"To each other."

"Yeah."

Both men shifted, nervous. They had to be careful about what they said here. No matter how much that meant they had to leave unsaid.

Soldier took a deep breath, watching Demoman shiver and try to avoid his gaze. "Do you need help with this wood?"

"What?" the Scot asked, looking up suddenly.

"You're going to freeze to death if you're out here much longer," Soldier announced, grabbing hold of the axe and wrenching it from the stump. He watched the RED step back, nervous. Undaunted, the BLU grabbed a log and positioned it on the stump. With a mighty swing, he split it. "I don't want nature stealing my kills."

Demoman smiled at that. He tugged his gloves back on and tucked his hands under his armpits. "How's this cold nae botherin' ye?"

"I grew up in the midwest. Our winters are brutal. It's good training," the American explained, splitting logs as he talked. "I also have a coat that's thicker than tissue paper."

"Me coat's nae—"

"Your coat is pathetic! Do yourself a favour when you get back to that tinderbox base of yours: tell your employer to properly outfit its troops. You'll die of frostbite before we can kick your asses ourselves. Mann Co sells good coats. Order one of those. Only had two catch on fire on me."

"I'll remember that tip," Demoman nodded. He stood back, watching as the burly BLU did his work for him. "Thanks, lad."

"You are welcome. The faster I get you off  _my point_ , the better," he grinned, catching a glimpse of the RED's matching expression from just under the brim of his helmet.


End file.
